“I’m counting on that five dollars—­eight bits to a dollar, forty bits altogether.  Why, it’s a fortune, Bub.”

He took out his knife, looked around for a stick to whittle and, finding none, put the knife in his pocket with a sigh.

“I guess Will Morrison wouldn’t like it,” he decided.  “Put up yer money, Sairy.”

Sarah withdrew the gold-piece and put a larger one in its place.

“There,” she said; “let’s make it ten dollars, and save time.”

Bub’s hesitation vanished, but he asked anxiously: 

“Tain’t go’n’ to do no harm to them gals thet’s stoppin’ here, is it?”

“It is to do them a good turn that I’m sending this telegram.”

“Honor bright?”

“Hope to die, Bub.”

“All right; I’m off.”

He folded the letter, placed it inside his Scotch cap and stowed the money carefully in his pocket.

“Don’t let any of the folks see you if yon can help it,” warned Sarah; “and, whatever happens, don’t say anything about that telegram to a living soul.  Only—­see that it’s sent.”

“I’m wise,” answered Bub and a moment later he started the car and rolled away down the road.

Sarah Judd looked after him with a queer smile on her face.  Then she went back to her kitchen and resumed her dish-washing.  Presently a scarcely audible sound arrested her attention.  It seemed to come from the interior of the Lodge.

Sarah avoided making a particle of noise herself as she stole softly through the dining room and entered the main hallway.  One glance showed her that the front door was ajar and the door of the den closed—­exactly the reverse of what they should be.  She crept forward and with a sudden movement threw open the door of the den.

A woman stood in the center of the room.  As the door opened she swung around and pointed a revolver at Sarah.  Then for a moment they silently faced one another.

“Ah,” said the woman, with an accent of relief, “you’re the servant.  Go back to your work.  Mrs. Conant told me to make myself at home here.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Sarah sarcastically.  “She said she was expecting you and told me it wouldn’t do any harm to keep an eye on you while you’re here.  She said Miss Lord was going to get all the family away, so you could make a careful search of the house, you being Miss Lord’s maid, Susan—­otherwise known as Nan Shelley, from the Washington Bureau.”

Susan’s hand shook so ridiculously that she lowered the revolver to prevent its dropping from her grasp.  Her countenance expressed chagrin, surprise, anger.

“I don’t know you,” she said harshly.  “Who are you?”

“New at the game,” replied Sarah Judd, with a shrug.  “You don’t know me, Nan, but I know you; and I know your record, too.  You’re as slick as they make ’em, and the one who calls herself Agatha Lord is just an infantile amateur beside you.  But go ahead, Nan; don’t let me interrupt your work.”